oh my love, we will burn | a one-shot
Mar 11, 2018 23:06:57 GMT -5
mintedstar/fur, Mᴏᴏɴ - -, and 4 more like this
Post by ѕωιƒтƒαℓcση on Mar 11, 2018 23:06:57 GMT -5
1147 words
TW: Blood and blood magic
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-
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They call her beautiful.
They call her deadly.
They call her monster.
But their names have no meaning, like static on her tongue, leaving nothing remaining once they have passed by.
-
“It is forbidden,” Her mother tells them, three kits blinking up at her in a nest.
“It is forbidden,” Her sister hisses, glancing over her shoulder, fur spiked at the thought of being caught.
“It is forbidden!” The leader roars, anger pouring off him in waves.
But the magical words roll of her tongue as easily as breathing, their spun-sugar sweetness addicting, and Rosethorn cannot stop herself from speaking them.
-
The Elder knows. She sees the gleam in Rosethorn’s eyes, the longing whenever the word magic is whispered, hissed like a curse. She is old enough to remember a time before magic was outlawed, and with a smile and a gesture, she brings Rosethorn closer.
“I will teach you.”
And she does.
-
The Elder speaks a word, and it tastes clean and clear, nectar cradled in the base of a flower. A daisy grows and unfurls beneath her paws.
Rosethorn echoes the word, and it tastes heavy and sweet, maple syrup stickiness on her tongue. Brambles grow and spread, with thorns as large as cat’s paws, tendrils reaching, seeking, trying to catch something, anything, to bring into their grasp.
The Elder speaks a word, and it is the air just after a spring rain, soft and green and alive. A tiny creek appears, trickling down through the grass.
Rosethorn repeats the word, and it coats her tongue with the heavy, metallic air right before a lightning strike, and the water turns to a flood, strong enough to wash them away if they had not jumped aside.
Power hums in her veins, and Rosethorn smiles.
-
“You are so cute!”
Rosepaw is not cute. She is a hunter slinking through the trees, bringing down her prey with a bounce and a bite, accurate and deadly.
“You’re too little.”
Rosepaw is not little. She is strong, able to bring down her much bigger brother down during battle training, muscle powerful under a still kit-soft pelt.
“Aw, you’re so sweet.”
Rosepaw is not sweet. She is fierce, and she has fire burning behind her eyes and claws unsheathed, a growl heavy in the back of her throat.
“StarClan honors your beauty and your quickness, and we welcome you as a full member of ThunderClan.”
Rosethorn is beautiful, but that is not all she is. She is scarred, and she is strong, marks of battles fought and won. She is intelligent, and she is angry.
She is not respected, no matter how much she fights to be.
She will make them respect her.
-
She speaks a word, and it is bitter lemon rind, and fire burns a fern to ash and dust.
She speaks a word, and it is catmint unearthed from under snow, and frost shrivels all the grass under her paws.
She speaks a word, and power rushes through her veins, and she breathes it in and lets herself get lost in the rush.
-
Her name is Foxflight, and she is fascinating.
Rosethorn watches her.
She watches the way she steps, light and careful.
She watches the way she moves, lithe and graceful.
She watches the way she pounces, bringing the other cat down, jaws at their throat. She doesn’t break the skin, steps away and lets them up, which they do, shaking the adrenaline from the mock battle away. But Foxflight is cool and calm, and she looks over, and green eyes meet amber, and Foxflight smiles, and Rosethorn falls just a little bit in love.
-
The Elder speaks a word, and it is lavender and honey, and the sky clears.
Rosethorn speaks a word, and it is caramel and cream, and the rains pour down.
-
“Show me,” Foxflight whispers in her ear, so Rosethorn does.
Oleander blooms and dies before their eyes, the whisper of magic in Rosethorn’s veins, and Foxflight laughs, and Rosethorn falls just a little bit in love.
-
“It is forbidden!” Her sister whispers, kithood caution turning into protective fear long ago.
“It is forbidden!” The leader cries, anger turning into desperation.
Rosethorn does not care. Power is a drumbeat within her heart, and she can’t imagine leaving that feeling behind.
-
“No more,” the Elder says.
“Too powerful,” the Elder says.
“I do not trust the light in your eyes,” the Elder says.
It is no matter. Rosethorn hasn’t needed the Elder in a long, long time.
-
Blood coats her paws, and the cat that was once her mentor is nothing but a red, red pile on the ground behind her. Rosethorn inhales, exhales.
She speaks a word, and it is heady and rich, the first bite of still warm prey, and the ground trembles beneath her paws with her power.
-
Foxflight understands even when no one else does, and Rosethorn goes to her. They crash together, flint hitting stone, and flames lick at the air around them.
“We will burn,” Rosethorn whispers. There is a fire in her chest and a heat in her belly, embers swirling and sparking and igniting.
Foxflight presses her forehead to Rosethorn’s and closes her eyes. She inhales, she exhales.
“Oh, my love,” she breathes, softly as a sigh. “We will burn, and we will burn the whole world with us.”
-
She has the power to level the forest, to drain the lake, to bring the clans to their knees, and still they do not respect her.
“Sweetheart, no,” he sneers, condescending and irritating.
“You are so pretty, why don’t you have a mate by now?” she asks, ignoring Rosethorn’s snarl.
“You don’t know what we’re talking about,” he says, looking down his nose, the implication of a lack of intelligence setting Rosethorn’s fur on edge.
They do not respect her.
Not after everything she has proved, not after the battles fought and won.
-
The thing that used to be a clanmate stains the grass red, and Rosethorn speaks a word, the dripping off her tongue like honey.
Foxflight presses up against her, ignoring the red that soaks into the fur of her paws, and Rosethorn can feel her purr.
Rosethorn speaks a word, and her power shakes the ground beneath them, and Foxflight purrs, and Rosethorn falls even more in love.
-
There is blood on her paws, and they call her monster.
There is red in her footsteps, and Foxflight calls her lover.
There is magic in her bones, and Rosethorn raises her chin and calls herself powerful.
-
She doesn’t know why she ever wanted respect, why she fought tooth and claw to earn it.
They would have never respected her.
But they fear her, now.
She doesn’t know why she ever wanted respect.
After all, fear tastes so much sweeter.
-
-
-
So, I took a writing workshop over the summer and there was a day on creating villains, right? And I came up with this girl, who turned evil in a desperation for people to notice her. But I wrote it describing magic as having a flavor, a sweetness, and I thought that would be kind of fun to play with a little bit more. Because, y'know, food is kind of my thing. I did take some creative liberties, because apparently cats can't taste sweet things, and would they know what maple syrup was let alone tasted like? Probably not. But hey, technically it comes from nature.
Also, even if I don't really have a lot of time to sink into full length fanfics right now (other than WD&FD, because I love both my cowriter and our tragic scottish cats), I still want to be present on the wff, and so I think one-shots are the way to do it. I may make a library to house all of these, too.
TW: Blood and blood magic
-
-
-
They call her beautiful.
They call her deadly.
They call her monster.
But their names have no meaning, like static on her tongue, leaving nothing remaining once they have passed by.
-
“It is forbidden,” Her mother tells them, three kits blinking up at her in a nest.
“It is forbidden,” Her sister hisses, glancing over her shoulder, fur spiked at the thought of being caught.
“It is forbidden!” The leader roars, anger pouring off him in waves.
But the magical words roll of her tongue as easily as breathing, their spun-sugar sweetness addicting, and Rosethorn cannot stop herself from speaking them.
-
The Elder knows. She sees the gleam in Rosethorn’s eyes, the longing whenever the word magic is whispered, hissed like a curse. She is old enough to remember a time before magic was outlawed, and with a smile and a gesture, she brings Rosethorn closer.
“I will teach you.”
And she does.
-
The Elder speaks a word, and it tastes clean and clear, nectar cradled in the base of a flower. A daisy grows and unfurls beneath her paws.
Rosethorn echoes the word, and it tastes heavy and sweet, maple syrup stickiness on her tongue. Brambles grow and spread, with thorns as large as cat’s paws, tendrils reaching, seeking, trying to catch something, anything, to bring into their grasp.
The Elder speaks a word, and it is the air just after a spring rain, soft and green and alive. A tiny creek appears, trickling down through the grass.
Rosethorn repeats the word, and it coats her tongue with the heavy, metallic air right before a lightning strike, and the water turns to a flood, strong enough to wash them away if they had not jumped aside.
Power hums in her veins, and Rosethorn smiles.
-
“You are so cute!”
Rosepaw is not cute. She is a hunter slinking through the trees, bringing down her prey with a bounce and a bite, accurate and deadly.
“You’re too little.”
Rosepaw is not little. She is strong, able to bring down her much bigger brother down during battle training, muscle powerful under a still kit-soft pelt.
“Aw, you’re so sweet.”
Rosepaw is not sweet. She is fierce, and she has fire burning behind her eyes and claws unsheathed, a growl heavy in the back of her throat.
“StarClan honors your beauty and your quickness, and we welcome you as a full member of ThunderClan.”
Rosethorn is beautiful, but that is not all she is. She is scarred, and she is strong, marks of battles fought and won. She is intelligent, and she is angry.
She is not respected, no matter how much she fights to be.
She will make them respect her.
-
She speaks a word, and it is bitter lemon rind, and fire burns a fern to ash and dust.
She speaks a word, and it is catmint unearthed from under snow, and frost shrivels all the grass under her paws.
She speaks a word, and power rushes through her veins, and she breathes it in and lets herself get lost in the rush.
-
Her name is Foxflight, and she is fascinating.
Rosethorn watches her.
She watches the way she steps, light and careful.
She watches the way she moves, lithe and graceful.
She watches the way she pounces, bringing the other cat down, jaws at their throat. She doesn’t break the skin, steps away and lets them up, which they do, shaking the adrenaline from the mock battle away. But Foxflight is cool and calm, and she looks over, and green eyes meet amber, and Foxflight smiles, and Rosethorn falls just a little bit in love.
-
The Elder speaks a word, and it is lavender and honey, and the sky clears.
Rosethorn speaks a word, and it is caramel and cream, and the rains pour down.
-
“Show me,” Foxflight whispers in her ear, so Rosethorn does.
Oleander blooms and dies before their eyes, the whisper of magic in Rosethorn’s veins, and Foxflight laughs, and Rosethorn falls just a little bit in love.
-
“It is forbidden!” Her sister whispers, kithood caution turning into protective fear long ago.
“It is forbidden!” The leader cries, anger turning into desperation.
Rosethorn does not care. Power is a drumbeat within her heart, and she can’t imagine leaving that feeling behind.
-
“No more,” the Elder says.
“Too powerful,” the Elder says.
“I do not trust the light in your eyes,” the Elder says.
It is no matter. Rosethorn hasn’t needed the Elder in a long, long time.
-
Blood coats her paws, and the cat that was once her mentor is nothing but a red, red pile on the ground behind her. Rosethorn inhales, exhales.
She speaks a word, and it is heady and rich, the first bite of still warm prey, and the ground trembles beneath her paws with her power.
-
Foxflight understands even when no one else does, and Rosethorn goes to her. They crash together, flint hitting stone, and flames lick at the air around them.
“We will burn,” Rosethorn whispers. There is a fire in her chest and a heat in her belly, embers swirling and sparking and igniting.
Foxflight presses her forehead to Rosethorn’s and closes her eyes. She inhales, she exhales.
“Oh, my love,” she breathes, softly as a sigh. “We will burn, and we will burn the whole world with us.”
-
She has the power to level the forest, to drain the lake, to bring the clans to their knees, and still they do not respect her.
“Sweetheart, no,” he sneers, condescending and irritating.
“You are so pretty, why don’t you have a mate by now?” she asks, ignoring Rosethorn’s snarl.
“You don’t know what we’re talking about,” he says, looking down his nose, the implication of a lack of intelligence setting Rosethorn’s fur on edge.
They do not respect her.
Not after everything she has proved, not after the battles fought and won.
-
The thing that used to be a clanmate stains the grass red, and Rosethorn speaks a word, the dripping off her tongue like honey.
Foxflight presses up against her, ignoring the red that soaks into the fur of her paws, and Rosethorn can feel her purr.
Rosethorn speaks a word, and her power shakes the ground beneath them, and Foxflight purrs, and Rosethorn falls even more in love.
-
There is blood on her paws, and they call her monster.
There is red in her footsteps, and Foxflight calls her lover.
There is magic in her bones, and Rosethorn raises her chin and calls herself powerful.
-
She doesn’t know why she ever wanted respect, why she fought tooth and claw to earn it.
They would have never respected her.
But they fear her, now.
She doesn’t know why she ever wanted respect.
After all, fear tastes so much sweeter.
-
-
-
So, I took a writing workshop over the summer and there was a day on creating villains, right? And I came up with this girl, who turned evil in a desperation for people to notice her. But I wrote it describing magic as having a flavor, a sweetness, and I thought that would be kind of fun to play with a little bit more. Because, y'know, food is kind of my thing. I did take some creative liberties, because apparently cats can't taste sweet things, and would they know what maple syrup was let alone tasted like? Probably not. But hey, technically it comes from nature.
Also, even if I don't really have a lot of time to sink into full length fanfics right now (other than WD&FD, because I love both my cowriter and our tragic scottish cats), I still want to be present on the wff, and so I think one-shots are the way to do it. I may make a library to house all of these, too.